


Better

by anomalously



Series: After It Happened [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 10 years past 5x12, Angst, Bipolar Ian, Gen, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nostalgia, Reunion, Sexual Content, but hes better now, cute and sad and i have a lot of feels about this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-29 09:02:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3890419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomalously/pseuds/anomalously
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been ten years since Ian's seen Mickey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

After it happened, Ian fell apart. He slept on the couch for a whole month because every time he went upstairs to his bedroom, to his bed… he just couldn't deal.

He had tried to save Mickey. He tried to set him free and take away the burden of having a fucked up in the head boyfriend. But it came out all messed up, it came out wrong and cold and like he didn't care. The more his mind tried to fix the words that came out, the worse it got. Every time he opened his mouth, all he could think about were all the times that Mickey had been punished, in one way or another, for loving him. 

So Ian tried to save him. The problem was, he was so lost in his own head and hurting so bad and was so confused that he pushed Mickey away harder than he _ever_ wanted.

Mickey had done that to Ian before, tried to save him by pushing him away, but it didn't make it right either way. It just made everything so much more fucked up.

Ian didn't run away, but he heard that Mickey did. He wanted to stop him, but after what happened, he was so ashamed that the thought of facing Mickey again made him sick to his stomach. If Mickey wanted to leave, if that’s what he needed… then Ian wasn’t going to get in his way. Maybe he’d be happy finally, away from him, away from all this shit.

It took him a couple weeks for him to clear up —then he was bad again, but really bad, stuck inside his own head, the last conversation with Mickey replaying over and over. Mickey’s face, heartbroken. He’d done that to him. So his depression dipped even lower. 

Ian lost a bit of weight, looked horribly sick. Fiona and Debbie would sit next to where he laid and stroke his hair. They tried to keep their tears in, but he heard them sniff and felt that tension in the air. Sometimes he wanted them to leave him alone, didn't like them seeing him like that, but most times it was nice to listen to Debbie talk to him softly. She’d talk to him about about the most inane shit possible, but it was still nice.

Ian never understood how it worked, the intricacies of his bipolar disorder. He was okay and then he wasn’t, then he was okay again… over and over. After it got really bad though, he had a long talk with Lip and Fiona. He went back on medication.

(It took a while for him to find the right cocktail. It was frustrating and he wanted to give up countless times. He almost did, too. But not wanting to end up like his mother was motivation enough to plow through. Every time he took his pills, he thought _“I’m not Monica.”_ and it helped.)

After the first year passed since the breakup, Ian started feeling more like himself. Not completely back to the old Ian Gallagher —he didn't think that he’d ever be that kid again— but he felt good enough to want to get his shit together. He got his GED and started making plans to enroll in community college.

(He missed Mickey. Craved him. Dialed his number countless times but never hit send. There were a few times when he missed him so much that, and he’d be embarrassed if anyone found this out, that he stole one of Liam’s black markers and wrote on his knuckles to pretend that his hands weren’t his own. It wasn't the same. It felt foolish and wrong, so he never did it again after the third time.)

There were a few guys that came and left in his life, but they were never serious, sticking around for six months at most. There was a Vince, who drank too much. There was a Drew, who was painfully normal. There was an Ethan, who was a little too much like Mickey —but in the bedroom was more like Drew. It was a mess. So for a while, Ian just kept to himself.

When he graduated from community college, he’d never been more proud of himself. He finally had something to be proud of; he hadn’t had that in a long time.

Eventually, he got out of South Side. He, Ian Gallagher, got out of South Side. He got a teaching job in North Side and could finally afford a place that wasn't quite so shitty (a small, barely enough room to live, little apartment, but nice enough). Being on his own was… quiet. He didn't know if that was a bad thing or a good thing.

Scott came into Ian’s life like a well-dressed, overconfident freight train, completely taking him off guard. He stuck around for a while, almost three years. But Scott’s inability to really understand Ian’s bipolar and his unwillingness to compromise was their undoing. The arguments they got in would shake Ian’s apartment, would stress him out and it became too much.

Before Ian knew it, ten years had passed. He was in a good place in his life, loved his job, was happy with being by himself finally. Mickey flitted in and out of his memory, popping up at the most random times. Watching some old action movie, sending a particularly obnoxious kid to the principal’s office, running into the Kash and Grab on the way to visit Fiona. Just little things that used to be painful, but now turned kind of sweet and nostalgic. He wondered how Mickey was doing now, if he was happy. He hoped he was.

He’d been running late to Fiona’s, getting stuck at school grading papers. He just ran into the little store to grab some water, not paying any attention at all to what was around him. It was time to take his medication and he needed a drink, never being _quite_ badass enough to dry-swallow pills. He never understood how people could do that.

And then he could have sworn he were dreaming, or hallucinating.

“Ay, they got any Slim Jim’s in this shithole?”

But when he whipped around and saw Mickey, clear as fucking day. Mickey. Mickey, _his_ Mickey. He couldn't breathe, barely had enough to say, “Mick…”

And then Mickey laughed, and he forgot how good that sound was, he’d forgotten how his face lit up, how that rare smile just took over and blinded everyone around him. _Mickey_.

“What… how are you? Where’d you go?” Ian asked dumbly. He exhaled ten years worth of breath, watching Mickey walk around the shelves to stand next to him. His fingers itched to reach out and touch him, but he held still, afraid that if he did, the man would just fade away. 

Ian knew his mouth was still hanging open, knew he had this perplexed look on his face, his breath coming out a little ragged, but every time he tried to fix it, it just _wouldn't_.

Mickey rubbed at his lips. Fuck. “I’ve been good,” he said. “Moved to Cleveland.”

“You like it?” Ian’s mouth said the words while his mind took the backseat.

Mickey nodded, “Yeah, it turned out good. You still around here?”

Ian breathed, trying to get back control of himself, “Yeah. I mean, no. No, I’m not. I’m heading over to the old house. Fiona’s making dinner…” but he trailed off, getting caught up in looking at Mickey. God he looked good. He always looked good, but _fuck_. “Shit, I’m sorry… I just…”

Mickey, still grinning, nodded his head, “I know.”

“Excuse me ladies, are you gonna buy something or are you gonna keep clucking at each other?” the kid at the register called over.

Ian watched Mickey’s eyebrows arch sharply as they exchanged a look. He missed that look.

“Who the _fuck_ …” Mickey huffed a laugh in disbelief. 

Almost in relief from the distraction, Ian chuckled, “He doesn't know you, Mick.”

Ian paid for his bottle of water while Mickey just waited and gave the kid working the register a hard glare. It was… surreal. If this was some kind of dream, Ian really hoped that he wasn't going to wake up any time soon. Because holy shit Mickey Milkovich.

They stood outside of the Kash and Grab, in the chilled air, but it didn't matter. Ian barely felt it because his face was still a bit warm from just being around Mickey. He felt like that fifteen year old kid again, completely smitten and entranced with _everything_ that Mickey was. He’d been such a dork back then, when they first started fucking, unable to stop smiling because he, Ian Gallagher, was fucking Mickey Milkovich. _The_ Mickey Milkovich.

Ten years seemed not so long ago now. He thought that if the day ever came that he would see Mickey again, he would be fairly neutral. But first loves… well, you never forget them. How could he _ever_ think in a million years that he could feel anything _remotely_ neutral when it came to Mickey? He’d been an idiot to think that.

“You look good, Mick.” Ian said.

Mickey ran his tongue over his bottom lip and rolled his eyes. Ian loved that, always had. “I stopped drinking,” he said, patting his stomach.

Ian’s eyes went wide, “Wow.”

“Yeah. So, how’ve you been?”

“Good,” Ian replied, “I’m… shit man, I’m North side,” he winced with a little smile.

Mickey looked nothing less than happy for him, his face softening, “That’s great, man. You like it?”

Ian nodded, not daring to look away, not even for a moment, “Yeah, I do. I mean I’m not living it up in one of those fancy ass houses or anything, but… my small ass apartment works fine.”

Mickey grinned, “That’s awesome, man.”

There was so much he wanted to say. So much he needed to tell Mickey. He was on medication. He was better now, he made a mistake. He was _sorry_. He was so fucking sorry that his bones hurt from it. But nothing came out but a few sighs and running a hand over his hair.

“I know,” Mickey breathed. He reached over and placed a hand on Ian’s shoulder for just a moment. Ian stopped himself from pulling Mickey towards him, stopped himself from just wrapping his arms around him. _God_ he missed Mickey’s hugs. 

He hadn't felt this helpless in a long time. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it.

“What’ve you been up to?” Ian only trusted himself to say.

“Shit, man. I’ve been working a nine-to-five like a bitch,” Mickey laughed. Ian did too. “I’ve been at this garage for like eight years now. Bossman’s retiring. Never had kids so… he’s kinda giving me and a buddy of mine the place.”

“That’s awesome, Mick. I didn’t even know you knew about cars.”

“I knew enough to get my foot in the door,” Mickey shrugged “Then I bullshitted my way until I actually fucking knew what I was doing.”

“Nice,” Ian grinned. “I’m teaching now… English.”

“No fucking way.”

“Swear to god.”

That made Mickey laugh, one of those rough ones that crinkled the corners of his eyes, “Okay, _professor_. That’s good… you like it?”

“Yeah, but middle-schoolers are actual demons sent from hell.”

“Fuck, I know. Yev’s getting to that age, he wears me the fuck out,” Mickey sighed, taking a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket.

The mention of Yev’s name was like a knife to his gut. “You still smoking, huh?”

“Only thing I got left,” Mickey mumbled around his cigarette. Thick white smoke formed a cloud between them before he held out the cigarette to Ian, like a habit. 

Ian took it without much thought, “How’s… how’s Yev?”

Mickey’s smile softened, “Good. Smart as shit and has a bad attitude.”

“Wonder where he got that from,” Ian teased.

“Fuck off,” Mickey laughed, rolling his eyes.

They stood there for a while, passing the cigarette between them. Ian’s phone buzzed again. He still ignored it. He couldn't stop staring at Mickey; Mickey let him —he was staring at him too. 

“I heard about Terry,” Ian finally said. 

He didn't apologize or give any condolences. Terry didn't deserve that. Ten years passing didn't scrub away the look on Mickey’s face at the mention of his father. Mickey was strong, but he never forgot, he carried all that bullshit with him wherever he went. Ian knew that much about Mickey, so that’s why he didn't feel sorry for not being sorry. Mickey wasn’t sorry.

“Yeah,” Mickey rubbed at his mouth again, “I’m just here to you know, deal with his shit. Didn’t go to the funeral.”

“Can’t really blame you,” Ian said, “When are you going back to Cleveland —you sticking around for a while?” 

Mickey’s face fell a little, “I leave in the morning.”

If the mention of Yev’s name was like a knife in the gut, then that was like a fucking bullet in the chest. Ian’s shoulders slipped down a little, feeling helpless again, feeling like he wanted to reach out and touch Mickey again. But he didn’t. He wouldn’t. 

“You have dinner yet?” Ian asked, grasping for something, _anything_ to make Mickey stick around him for a little longer. “You wanna grab something?”

“Thought you were going back home for dinner?”

“I’ll call and cancel. I’ll cancel everything,” Ian rushed, knowing he sounded desperate. But he fucking was and he didn't care.

“Ian…” Mickey sighed. “I dunno, man.”

“It’s just dinner,” Ian said, his voice softer then he wanted. “Just food.”

His words hung in the air as Mickey was back to running his tongue along his bottom lip, scratching at his brow. He wasn't looking at Ian now, he was looking out into the street, pulling on his cigarette.

“I’ll be good,” Ian said before he could stop himself.

Mickey shook his head, still not looking at him, “Ain’t worried about _you_.”

“I don’t want…” Ian sighed. What didn't he want? “Please… you can’t…”

Mickey finally looked back at him, face relaxed and patient, “Can’t what?”

_You can’t just come into town and ask about Slim Jims, and be this fucking beautiful, and share your cigarette with me, and tell me that you’re not worried that I won’t be good, but you’re worried that_ you _wont be good, and just be_ everything _you are, and leave in the morning and never come back._

“Nothing… sorry. You’re right. Probably a bad idea.”

Mickey stared at him for what seemed like an eternity. Ian would have given anything to know what he was thinking. His blue eyes were slightly narrowed in thought; he threw his cigarette to the ground and let out a “Fuck,” all rough and tortured sounding. He grabbed Ian’s elbow and started walking. Ian followed without protest, would follow that man into hell if he had to.

Then they were in an alley, Mickey pushing Ian against a brick wall, holding him at arms length, his tattooed hand keeping Ian there, pressing into his chest. Ian’s mouth went dry, watching Mickey’s eyes dart all around, looking at his face. He didn't dare move, afraid of scaring the man off, but it was hard to breathe, hard to think when all he could focus on were those blue eyes and that mouth and… Ian swallowed hard, trying to calm himself, trying to not revert back to that fifteen year old kid.

“Mick—”

“Stop. Please just… stop for a second,” Mickey shook his head, his voice soft, hand still holding Ian against the wall.

Ian nodded, “Okay… okay.”

Mickey’s hand fell. He took a step back. Ian clenched his fists at his sides until they ached. The shorter man was breathing hard, opened his mouth a couple times, trying to figure out the right words. He was so fucking bad at this and it killed Ian to watch him struggle with pulling the words out, but he waited patiently, watching Mickey run his hands through his hair and rub at his mouth.

“I…” Mickey began, shaking his head. “It’s been _ten_ fucking years.”

Ian nodded, “I know.”

“I have a life in Cleveland,” Mickey breathed hard, “A good fucking life.”

His eyes were starting to sting, “I know.”

“I fucking stopped _drinking_. I make dinner for my kid —who I _love_. I’m about to be a business owner. Me, Mickey Milkovich, I turned my shit around.”

Again, Ian nodded, feeling his chest rip in two. His vision went a little blurry and wet, eyes stung even more.

Mickey rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, took another step back. “I was with this guy for a five fucking years. His name was Jackson and he fucking loved me,” he paused, just staring hard at Ian, “He _loved_ me. And I was happy, and he was good to my son, and we were fucking _happy_. But I couldn’t…” his bitter smile faded away. “Because of you, in my head, always in my fucking head.”

Ian didn't bother wiping away the tears that slipped down his cheeks, tried to ignore the ping in his chest that someone else loved Mickey. “I’m sorry.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey huffed, shaking his head. “Do you know how much fucking research I did on bipolar disorder —to try to understand, to try and figure out what the _fuck_ happened? You might as well call me a _fucking_ psychologist. So… don’t apologize to me for something… for something you can’t fucking help,” his voice turned softer as Ian’s eyes grew wider.

Ian took a step forward, but Mickey reached out again, pushing him back against the wall, keeping his hand curled in his shirt. Ian lifted his hands up on either side of himself in surrender, knowing that Mickey wasn't going to actually hurt him, but showing the shorter man that he’d respect his space. “Okay,” he breathed.

“You tell me it wasn't all for nothing. Tell me you got your shit straight, man. You don’t even know what I went through. But I got better. I…” Mickey licked his lips and exhaled, “I forgave you —forgive you. So don’t _apologize_ , because it’s over now. It’s done. I don’t want to go back, I fucking _can’t_ go back to square fucking one. Don’t do that to me. So just… just tell me that you’re fucking taking care of yourself, _for yourself_ , not for anyone else. Not for your fucking family, or whoever…”

Ian let out a choked breath, wanted to fall apart right there, hearing Mickey’s voice shake, remembering what he had done. He wanted to go back in time and fix everything. He wanted to take back every time he left Mickey, every time he broke his heart —every time Mickey had broken his heart too. Their relationship had been a battlefield with brief moments of victory since day fucking one and it had never been fair.

“I’m taking care of myself, Mick. I’ve been on meds for the past ten years, I got my shit straight.” Ian said, watching Mickey’s eyes water up, the corners go all red. He carefully reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out two pill bottles, “See? I need to take these, that’s why I was in the Kash and Grab. I got better, Mick. I swear to god I did. I turned it around.”

Mickey loosened his hold, looking at the bottles expectantly, his brows arching high. Ian nodded, retrieved his medication and downed them with a swig from his water then stuffed the orange bottles back inside his jacket pocket.

As soon as the pills slid down his throat, Mickey was pulling Ian down by the back of the neck, pressing their foreheads together. Ian felt Mickey’s breath on his mouth and it sent a shudder though his body. All he had to do was tilt his head up and their mouths would be brushing against each other. But he didn’t.

Ian reached for Mickey’s sides, resting his hands carefully on his hips, feeling the texture of t-shirt and denim. Mickey smelled like cigarettes and soap and that smell that Ian had missed, that Mickey smell. Ian breathed it in, unable to stop the labored sigh in the back of his throat.

“I’m leaving in the morning,” Mickey whispered.

“I don’t wanna think about that,” Ian whispered back, pulling Mickey against him.

 


	2. Kissing Ian Gallagher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been ten years since Mickey's kissed Ian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER CONTENT WARNING: 
> 
> Internalized Homophobia  
> Homophobic language (twice)  
> Sexual Content
> 
> & mention of 3x666

Kissing Ian Gallagher had been a slow build of courage for Mickey Milkovich.

The first time Ian tried to kiss him, Mickey had threatened to cut his tongue out. They had fucked for the first time, in his room, in his house —in  _Terry’s_  house. Just the act of looking at another boy for too long could have earned him a black eye, a bruised rib or two. Or worse.

So, the first time Ian tried to kiss him, Mickey shut him down immediately. Fucking was one thing, but kissing was something boys and girls did when they liked each other, it made it something more than just physical. And Mickey couldn't risk that, wasn’t about to get killed over a fuck. 

Ian didn't understand, would  _never_  understand. He was a Gallagher, not a Milkovich and no matter how much you  _thought_  you knew about the Milkovich’s, you never really  _knew_  the Milkovich’s. Cutting his tongue out would have been merciful.

* * *

The second time Ian tried to kiss him, they had been undressing each other in the Kash and Grab freezer, all keyed up and breathing hard. Mickey’s filthy hands tugged at Ian’s belt buckle while Ian’s clean hands unbuttoned his jeans. They were quick and desperate, Mickey not daring to meet Ian’s eyes because maybe if he didn't look at the kid, maybe if he separated himself from his body, it wouldn't really count.

It was just a brush of lips. Ian leaned forward, breathed hotly against his mouth, his lips were soft and warm. Mickey leaned into the touch for an instant before he caught himself. He shoved at Ian, shoved him away, glaring hard, shaking his head, called him a faggot, did what he had to do to get Ian to  _not_  want to kiss him.

They didn't fuck that day, even though Mickey needed it. He left Ian in the freezer, stormed out of the store, grabbed a bag of chips on his way. 

* * *

The third time Ian tried to kiss him, the redhead had Mickey pressed into a corner of a broken down, abandoned building, his hand down his pants, just getting him off like that. Mickey’d been lost in it, gnawing at his lip and cursing and trapped between Ian and the corner —normally, he’d be fighting to get out of such a tight space.

But then Ian just leaned in and slanted his mouth against Mickey’s, swallowing his moan. And Mickey, caught up in Ian’s fucking spell, Mickey kissed him back, if only just for a few seconds. Ian’s mouth had been soft and inviting, his tongue tasted like cigarettes and beer and Red Vines that Mickey had stolen  _once again_  from the Kash and Grab.

When Ian’s hand stopped for a moment, Mickey woke up, pushing him away, zipping his pants back up, “I fucking told you not to kiss me.”

“It’s just us, who cares?” Ian frowned.

“You don't get it, do you firecrotch?” Mickey spat, “Keep your faggy mouth to yourself.”

“Because getting caught with my hand wrapped around your dick is better than getting caught with my mouth on yours? Why are you so scared to kiss me?”

“Fuck you,” Mickey shoved Ian away and left.

Shortly after that, Mickey went to juvie with a bullet hole in his leg, over a fucking Snickers bar by a middle-aged douchebag who liked to get fucked by underaged boys.

* * *

Then the baseball field happened, in the dugouts, while they were getting ready to leave. Ian had grabbed onto Mickey and just kissed him, just took over and laid one on him. 

Fuck, the fact was that Mickey couldn't stop  _watching_  him the whole time they were there, just trying to memorize every single detail about the redhead, entranced with the way his throat moved while he shotgunned that beer. He never told Ian that he’d missed him, would never tell him that the couple guys he fucked in juvie made his skin crawl because they weren’t him. 

So the forth time it happened, Mickey  _wanted_  to kiss Ian back, and did for a good solid minute before pushing him away. Actually it was more like Mickey stepped away, using his hands to distance them. His fingers curled in the fabric of Ian’s shirt until he shook off the buzzing from the kiss, afraid that he was going to pull the kid towards him again and finish what he ended.

“Stop doing that shit,” Mickey told the redhead. “Gonna get yourself killed. Or me.”

“ _Kissing_  is going to get us killed? No one is even around, Mickey. No one can see.”

“You know what I mean,” Not kissing —feeling, wanting, craving, getting attached. 

* * *

The fifth time, Mickey slipped. 

The fifth time, Ian had Mickey pinned down under him on Mickey’s bed. The house was empty, would be empty for the next several hours, and the two of them took refuge in that, deciding they needed to fuck as much as they possibly could in that timeframe. That day, Mickey had been distracted most of the time, afraid that his father and brothers would come back early, afraid of what would happen to him if they did.

The fifth time, Ian had Mickey pinned, giving him all he had and it was good, it was so fucking good that Mickey thought he’d split his lip from biting it so hard. Ian covered his mouth with his own, all hard and slow and deliberate and Mickey kissed him back, tasting him and moaning into his mouth, forgetting everything around them, just caught up in that moment.

Then Ian stopped pushing into him, only his lips moving now, tongue running along Mickey’s teeth, dipping and tasting him, fucking his mouth. Ian sucked on his bottom lip and Mickey sighed and relaxed and forgot all the bullshit,  _forgot who he was_. Ian had groaned into his mouth and shuddered, and it made Mickey a little smug about it; he’d done that.

All he knew was that he wanted to be in this moment, right here, for the rest of his fucking life. Yeah, with Ian Gallagher, who had been popping up in Mickey’s dreams late at night for a long time. Who had haunted him; Mickey would jack off to the thought of getting fucked by Ian, of the thought of Ian’s hands on him, looking at him, taking over his entire being. 

Mickey hated himself for it, wished he hated Ian for it. But when they kissed like that, he forgot.

Then when Ian moved his hands from holding Mickey’s arms down, to holding Mickey’s face, he remembered that hate. He remembered  _everything_. He remembered who he was, who his father was, where they were, what they were doing. And it was  _wrong_ , it was all fucking  _wrong_  and would get him killed. He couldn't do that, he couldn't fucking lose sight of reality like that.

He stopped the kiss. They didn't talk about it.

* * *

The sixth time, it happened in the Kash and Grab freezer, before they even started fucking. And Mickey  _let_  Ian kiss him that time, he  _let_  him hold the back of his neck,  _let_  him suck on his bottom lip and press into him and give his mouth a slow fuck with his tongue, taking every bit of his breath away. Mickey got lost in it again, the rest of the world melting away for a moment before it become too much, too real, and he slowly, without wanting to, broke the kiss.

“It’s just us,” Ian had said, touching their foreheads together, his hands curling around the back of Mickey's neck, pulling their bodies together. He rocked into him, brushing his lips against Mickey's again, “Just you and me in here.”

It wasn't as simple as that. Ian would  _never_  understand.

Then Frank caught them fucking; everything fell apart. 

At the time, it was the biggest wakeup call that Mickey had ever had. Fuck Ian for making him feel this way, fuck him for kissing him. Fuck him for thinking what they were doing was  _normal,_ that they had nothing to be ashamed of.  Ian didn't fucking get it.

Mickey went into survival mode. Got himself locked back up.

* * *

Mickey didn't kiss Ian when he got out of juvie, under the bleachers. He wanted to though, stopped himself before he leaned in. That would have been the first time.

He wondered if Ian kissed that other boy. Wondered if Ian just gave that shit away, kissing whoever he fucked like it was nothing. Seeing Ian with that boy had sparked something in Mickey that pissed him off because he knew  _exactly_  what it was. 

But if the boy under the bleachers was a spark, the gray-haired prick that Ian had been fucking was a goddamn firestorm. And Mickey  _hated_  it. He hated it so fucking much that Ian had crawled under his skin and had settled there like the fucking problem he was. And that's what Gallagher was, a fucking _problem_.

It was  _Ian’s_  fault that he threw back a couple beers and followed them to that bar. It was  _Ian’s_  fault that Mickey kicked the shit out of that old fuck.  _Ian_  made him do that.  _Ian_  made him feel this shit, this shit that was going to get him killed. And Mickey played into it like a bitch. It was a joke. A fucking joke.

But when they ran together, into that alley, chasing each other and Mickey felt that wall slip down a little bit… it was kind of worth it, even if for a moment.

(There was something about that day that Mickey kept hidden, that he buried deep down and didn't acknowledge, even to himself. It made his chest warm, and the hair on the back of his neck shudder every time the redhead smiled, and his eyes drop at the thought of someone else taking him from him. It was the day that Mickey started loving Ian,  _really_  loving him.)

Ian didn't kiss him that day. He almost did, had Mickey pushed up against a brick wall of an alley, their foreheads pressed together, breathing hard into each other’s faces. Ian had leaned in and Mickey’s stomach flipped. And that wasn't okay. So he diverted the situation, laughing and pushing Ian down to his knees in front of him.

He couldn't get the thought of Ian and that guy together out of his mind. It bothered him more than it should have. Mickey knew that Ian probably kissed that guy. Probably did it a lot.

* * *

“He isn't afraid to kiss me.”

Mickey replayed that statement in his head probably a thousand times before they robbed that old guy’s house. He’d bitten and rubbed his lips sore, was stuck in his head, thinking about six fucking words that fucked him up. He didn't want that old fuck  _kissing_  Gallagher. He didn't want him to  _touch_  Gallagher, or even look at him. 

Ian wasn't  _his_ , he was… well, he was Mickey’s.

“He isn’t afraid to kiss me.”

Mickey was only scared of one thing: Terry. And Mickey never really thought that what Ian said had been meant as a challenge, just a fact. That geriatric viagroid wasn’t afraid to kiss Ian. Fact. It’s just how it was.  _That’s_  what he saw in him. Not being afraid.

“He isn’t afraid to kiss me.”

So he ran back to the van on the day they robbed the guy’s house. He ran back to the van, climbed in and pressed his lips to Ian’s. He wanted to kiss him longer, wanted to just lock up the van with them inside and show Ian that he wasn't fucking afraid. He wasn’t some bitch. But he couldn’t. So it was soft and quick and it surprised Ian. It made him smile. It was worth it.

“He isn’t afraid to kiss me.”

It was the first time that  _Mickey_  kissed  _Ian_.

* * *

They kissed a lot after that. Like  _a lot_.

They’d lock up the Kash and Grab and go into the freezer just to kiss —and touch and fuck too, obviously, but it always started off with kissing. Mickey started  _wanting_  it. Started  _craving_  it. Was getting more attached than he was willing to admit. They were more than just  _attached_ , though. He knew it. Ian knew it. They knew how they felt about each other but never said it; it was too much for Mickey, too dangerous.

He knew the risks, but he’d been stupid. He fucked up. He thought that they could just be Ian and Mickey, they could just hide away in each other and kiss and… love. Mickey had finally said it to himself, in his head; he never said it out loud and wouldn't say it for a while. Because he knew that the moment he said it, it would make it  _real_. If he kept it inside and covered it with hate and denial, it would lessen the inevitable sting when it all fell apart. And he knew that it would all fall apart. He wanted to stop loving Ian before it was too late.

But then Terry came home early. And it was too late.

Mickey doesn't think about that anymore. Nothing good comes from dwelling on past shit that you can’t change, because it already happened. So he doesn't think about it anymore.

* * *

Then the wedding happened; Mickey kissed Ian, he kissed him hard and desperate and _I'm sorry_  and  _I need this_  and  _I need you_  and _I love you_.

Ian didn't understand. He never really did though, but that was no fault of his, he was a Gallagher, not a Milkovich. He didn't  _know_. And Mickey wanted to tell Ian, he wanted to explain it to him, wanted Ian to understand. The thing was though… as much as Ian didn't understand because he wasn’t a Milkovich… Mickey didn't understand either, because he wasn’t a Gallagher. 

And Mickey couldn't get the words out, he never could get the words out and in that moment, everything depended on  _his_  fucking words… and they failed him, like always. All he could say was “Don’t,” knowing it wasn't enough. 

It  _wasn't_  enough. So Ian left.

* * *

Mickey and Ian didn't kiss for a long time after that. And it hurt more than Mickey ever thought it would. It hurt so fucking bad that Mickey blocked most of it out. Couldn't deal. He hated himself.

Until they did kiss again... 

...until they didn't. 

* * *

Then ten years passed by and here Mickey was, forehead pressed against Ian’s, in an alley, breathing hard against his face, feeling like this was probably the best and worst situation he could be in right now. Ten. Fucking. Years.

He was going to hate himself in the morning, when he was boarding the plane. He was going to  _really_  fucking hate himself. But what the fuck, right?

This time Mickey kissed Ian. Ian let him.

Mickey pushed his body against the taller man’s, dug the pads of his fingers into the back of his neck, slid his tongue out to meet Ian’s. His whole body went white hot, every nerve-ending shuddering like he’d been given a dose of adrenaline. He hadn't felt that in so fucking long, hadn't tasted that Ian taste, hadn't let himself just melt into someone else, not like this. Everything was so natural and real and it was like he was jumping off a fucking cliff.

Then Ian sighed and groaned and pulled him even closer, moved and turned them until Mickey felt hard brick against his back and  _fuck_. It didn't matter that they were in an alley, kind of in public, in South Side, where anyone could just walk on by. It didn't matter that Mickey groaned so low and loud in the back of his throat that it made Ian grin. It didn't matter that tomorrow Mickey was going to be beating the shit out of himself for slipping up like this. 

Because he was kissing Ian Gallagher and everything else in the world faded away, everything else was  _bullshit_. Terry was dead. Mickey wasn't afraid anymore. He wasn’t scared. He didn't have to be scared of  _anything_  anymore. 

He'd told Ian a long time ago that he was free with him, but he never really was. That wasn't  _really_  freedom.  But this. This right fucking here was freedom.

Mickey gasped for air when Ian’s lips worked down to his neck. He sank into the way Ian was all but rutting himself up against him, tonguing and biting at his skin, evidently  _not_  forgetting any of Mickey’s sensitive spots. Mickey wondered, briefly, if Ian had thought about kissing him as much as Mickey had.

“Shit Mick,” Ian breathed against his neck.

Mickey opened his eyes, felt his body tense up. The world was fading back in. He pushed lightly at Ian, needing a little space to think. What were they doing?

“I'm fucking leaving,” Mickey panted; the words tore out of him with barely any breath to spare. “We can’t…”

Ian ran a hand over his hair. The redhead was flushed, hard, panting, swollen lips, looking so fucking good that Mickey was tempted to drop to his knees right then and there.

“Fuck,” Ian cursed, all breathy and drawn out, his face screwing up tight like he was in pain. He took a couple steps away from Mickey, looked at him with those eyes, pleading, hurting, sorry, watery eyes. “Fuck.”

This was so fucked up and unfair. Yet again.

Mickey was in exactly the same state as Ian, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, not wanting to think about going back to Cleveland and leaving Ian in the dust. He didn't think he’d get through it this time. Why did he have to fucking kiss him? Why did all those feelings have to come rushing back like a fucking tidal wave like that? He’d been so good and then…

This was Ian Gallagher. Love of his fucking life. First boy he let himself kiss, first boy he let himself love. 

They’d been through so much shit together. Fought together, fought each other, loved each other, hated each other, picked each other up and pushed each other down. It was fucking messy and dysfunctional in the past. 

But they were children then and there was a lot they hadn't understood. It was different now. It felt different... familiar, but different. _Better_.

So just kissing him, just fucking him, for a night, for only one night…  _that_  was wrong. It was unnatural. 

It had never been more clear in his life that  _not_  being with Ian was unnatural. 

The only problem was that they lived hundreds of miles away from each other now. The problem was that Mickey was leaving in the morning. Back to his life. His good life, which he loved. Which was going better than he had ever thought. And Ian... Ian had his life in North Side. Fucking North Side. Teaching, and loving it. He was better. Here. 

The only problem was… well, everything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. It hurts. I know. C'mere, gimme a hug.
> 
> One More Night by Maroon 5 fueled this one. 
> 
> These boys kill me. Let me die here.  
> I hope I got this right. Ah well.
> 
> Things I should have looked up: driving distance from Cleveland to Chicago, like 5-6 hours... clearly Mickey could have just driven and not taken a flight. I'm an idiot, forgive me. Sometimes details like that escape me.


	3. Six Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His phone buzzed in his pocket, for maybe the fifth or sixth time. Once again, Ian ignored it. Fiona had to wait. She’d understand.

He was ready to wake up from this nightmare. And it had to be a nightmare because the universe wasn't _so_ fucking cruel as to separate Ian from Mickey for ten years, then plop him back in the fucking Kash and Grab, just to rip him away again, right? 

So Ian was ready to wake up. He was ready to go back to his routine life of grading papers and handing out quizzes, with only _little_ reminders of Mickey Milkovich, only _small_ moments of pining, only wistful _what if_ daydreams flitting in and out.

It had been ten years, but Ian had never _stopped_ loving Mickey. 

It had just taken a backseat for a while. But it had never gone away.

And there they stood in that alley, Ian feeling his heart shatter into a million different pieces, feeling this ache try to rip him open. His lips stung and burned from kissing Mickey —kissing Mickey, _fuck_. 

Kissing Mickey was like a reclaimed addiction. Kissing him was like holding a loaded gun, a booming crack of lightning in the middle of a rainstorm. Mickey took breath, all of your breath, when he kissed you. Ian wondered if the man even knew what kind of power his lips held. It’s why he always tried to kiss him so much when they were young. He couldn't stop himself, couldn't get enough. Mickey never understood that.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, for maybe the fifth or sixth time. Once again, Ian ignored it. Fiona had to wait. She’d understand.

“We can’t fucking do this, man—”

“Where are you staying?” Ian cuts Mickey off, not thinking.

Mickey doesn't answer. He breathes. He leans back heavily against the wall. He stares at Ian, his blue eyes sad and tortured and Ian hates seeing him like that.

“Ian—”

“I just…” Ian doesn't even know. 

He just doesn't want Mickey to leave him in that alley. He doesn't want Mickey to go back to Cleveland without… without _what?_ What was he expecting? Was he really expecting Mickey to just hop on board the Mickey&Ian train again after ten years? After how it blew up the last time? What _exactly_ had he been expecting?

“I gotta go,” Mickey sighs, shaking his head, pushing himself off of the wall.

Ian holds out a hand, wishes he could stop and just let him go, but he can’t, “Wait.”

And Mickey, poor fucking Mickey, he wipes at his eyes, shoulders slumped, completely defeated. He stops himself from taking another step because Ian asked him to and it hurts so bad to see him like that. 

“For what?” Mickey asks, “For what, Ian?”

“I don’t know,” Ian responds with the last remaining breath that Mickey let him keep.

The dark-haired man rubs at his mouth. And before he can stop himself, Ian takes a step forward, expecting Mickey to take a step back. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t move, not even when Ian uncurls his hands to lay flat on either side of his face. Not even when Ian walks him backward until Mickey is once again pressed against the wall. Mickey doesn't fight it, not even when Ian hovers his mouth just a breath away from his.

Somewhere between that first fuck and the bullet in the leg, Ian had completely sold his soul over to Mickey Milkovich. It could have been twenty years that passed, thirty years, they’d still be in this fucking alley. Ian just wanted the rest of the world to melt away, to leave them alone so they could just stay there, right there, and forget everything else.

“We can’t do this,” Mickey sighs.

“I know,” Ian says. And he does know, he know’s he’s setting himself up for failure. He knows he’s setting himself up for a fucking Mickey Milkovich relapse. He _knows_.

Ian kisses Mickey, doesn't know if it’s a goodbye kiss. But it kind of feels like it, kind of feels like the proper ending they should have had. Kind of feels like it’s meant to be closure. Ian doesn't draw it out, doesn't press himself against Mickey like he wants to, doesn't let his hands wander anywhere, just keeps them framing Mickey’s face. 

But then Mickey wraps his arms around him and squeezes him tight and Ian wants to melt right there, because while Mickey’s kisses take his breath away, his hugs will him with warmth and give him that breath back with every rise and fall of Mickey’s chest against his own. 

Ian feels Mickey’s hand cup the back of his head, feels his fingers rub into his hair, and he pushes his face into his shoulder, not wanting to let go, but knowing he has to. Ian doesn't know how long they stay there like that, how long Mickeys arms are wrapped around his shoulders. Ian’s afraid to open his eyes, regretting ever wanting to wake up from this.

Sooner than he’s okay with, Mickey is gone.

Ian’s left in kind of a disconnected, numb haze. Somehow he makes it to his old house. Somehow he climbs up the concrete steps. Somehow he sits himself down at the table, where everyone is staring at him and asking where he’s been, but he’s too focused on blue eyes, and dark hair, and _We can’t do this_ , to really give a shit about explaining himself.

His siblings are worried for him, looking at each other, Ian knows they think he’s having a “bad day”, as they like to call it. Let them think that. Probably better that way, maybe they won’t bother him too much. 

He tries to leave after dinner, but Fiona and Lip take him upstairs to his old bedroom, _Just wondering if we’re a couple or not,_ the bedroom where he and Mickey used to love each other. _Of course we are._ As soon they pull him into that room, Ian feels the last remaining string holding him together snap. He doesn't realize he’s crying until Fiona is holding his face, holding him, rubbing his back.

“What’s uh… what’s going on with you?” Lip asks, “This isn’t you on a bad day, what happened?”

“We were worried about you,” Fiona says. 

Ian shrugs, reverting back to that fifteen year old, “I dunno.”

“Well, where the fuck were you?” Lip asks, his tone soft in contrast to his words.

This is the point where Ian folds his cards. He sighs, long and drawn out and it hurts to even look at his small ass bed in the corner, _Sorry I’m late_ , it hurts to be in this fucking room. 

“With Mickey.”

“Milkovich?”

Ian looks over at Lip, “Do you know another Mickey?”

“Jesus Christ,” Fiona sighs, back to holding him, mothering him. “What… are you okay?”

“No,” Ian breathes. No, he wasn’t okay, he’d never fucking be okay. _No_.

“Well, what the fuck happened?” Lip asks, lighting a cigarette.

Ian replays it in his mind, doesn't want to talk about it, doesn't want to talk about kissing Mickey in an alley, about how everything came rushing back and swallowed him whole like a goddamn tidal wave. Lip never really liked Mickey in the first place, so why would he care?

“What happened was… it’s been ten years, and he has a life in Cleveland, and I have a life here and…” Ian trailed off, shrugging.

“And you still love each other,” Fiona said, voice thick with tears she was holding back. She wiped at his cheeks, cleaning him up. Ian never really thought that Fiona thought much of Mickey, but evidently she felt more than what she let on.

Lip huffed a laugh, “Cleveland? That’s it?” 

“Fuck you, Lip,” Ian didn't have the energy.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Lip shrugged. “It’s been ten years, man. Grow up and fucking, you know… claim that shit, or whatever. A whole decade and you two are _still_ fucking exhausting.”

Ian loved his brother, he really did. But God help him, sometimes he just wanted to throw the man out of a fucking window.

“He’s leaving in the morning.”

“Fucking Milkovich.” Lip shakes his head and leaves the room, smoke trailing behind him. 

Fiona gets Ian to sit down on his bed, rubbing at his back, pressing her cheek to his shoulder. She doesn't say anything and Ian is thankful for that. 

He doesn't want to sit in this bed, _You coming back? Depends._ not when all he can think about his Mickey pressed against him under the thin covers and not being able to move the entire night because the bed is so fucking small. 

It never mattered though, it never mattered that they were stuck in the same position all night because if you moved even an inch, you’d probably fall right off the side. _Shut the fuck up, take your pills, bitch._

Ian doesn't know how long they sit there. But Lip comes back into the room and hands him a slip of paper.

“Name a single time I’ve let you down,” his older brother smirks, unashamed to quote himself. That’s Lip though, unashamed.

Ian looks down at the address scribbled on the paper, “What is this…”

Lip kneeled in front of Ian and grabbed his face, looking at him right in the eyes, “If I have to watch you pine over Mickey fucking Milkovich for another ten years, I’m gonna fucking kill myself. So stop being so dramatic, Cleveland is like six hours away or some shit. Get the fuck out of this house and go talk to your fucking boyfriend. You’re adults now, _figure it out_.”

Ignoring the boyfriend comment, Ian furrowed his brow, “How did you find out where—”

“Carl,” Lip said, needing no other explanation. Carl could find anyone, no one really knew how the guy did it, he had way too many contacts.

Then he left again. And that was it.

Ian stared down at the paper. Fiona stayed with him.

“I pushed too hard,” Ian said, “I didn't mean to push him so hard. I think… I think I broke him, Fi. I was trying to save him from all my bullshit.”

“I know,” Fiona whispered, always understanding, always on his side.

They stayed there for a while, silent, breathing, Fiona still resting her head on his shoulder, her hands holding onto one of his. Ian could probably kill a hundred people and Fiona would still sit with him like that, rub at his back, tell him that he was going to be okay. 

She really should have been a mother, but since she started raising children at around the time she knew how to make a bowl of cereal, she’d been “children’d out”, as she called it. And who could really blame her for feeling that way.

“Did I ever tell you about the time Mickey helped me with laundry?” Fiona asked, her voice soft.

Ian smirked, “No. I never thought he knew how, though.”

“He didn't know how,” Fiona breathed a soft laugh, “But, you were sleeping… passed out from your meds and Mickey, he’d been watching over you —you know, making sure you were okay. He was worried about you, but he was handling it well. Probably better than the rest of us. And uh… I was ironing, he was folding —trying to fold. And you know me, I asked him how he was doing with everything that was going on with you, trying to see if he was planning on sticking around or not, because I was worried that he’d leave you, because it’d be too much for him. And I didn’t want to see you get hurt.”

She let her words hang in the air for a moment. Ian chewed on his bottom lip, staring down at her small hands wrapped around one of his.

“And Mickey, he just looks at me, you know with that look, like _I’m_ a fucking idiot. But he’s all calm about it, like you know… like an adult. And he said that he knew he’d never get that old Ian back and that he was okay with it, because he was different now too. He said that all he wanted was for you to just… be happy and healthy, you know? That’s all. Just wanted you to take care of yourself, didn't care how long it took, how long you’d have to take your meds. I think that was around the time that I knew for sure that he loved you, and it was for real. Because he wasn’t going to give up on you.”

“And then I fucked it up,” Ian sighed, trying to keep his head from spinning because picturing his sister and Mickey having that conversation was too much.

“Of course you fucked it up, kid. You’re a Gallagher,” Fiona teased. “But you know what’s really great about being a Gallagher?”

“What?”

“We are just too cute to not give a third or forth or fifth chance.”

Ian laughed, nodding his head, “We are pretty cute, huh?”

“Damn cute,” she said. “I’m always in your corner, Ian, always will be. And I know you were going through a lot ten years ago, I know it was a lot to handle and things didn't come out the way you wanted them to, and you said things you didn't really mean. So just… make it right. Lip’s an asshole, but he’s right. Start over, Ian. It’s just six hours away.”

 

* * *

 

Getting to Mickey’s hotel room was like running through a fucking obstacle course. The hotel was poorly laid out, a maze of hallways with bad carpeting and stairwells that had flickering lights. Ian ran through three different buildings of the hotel before he figured out where he was going, his feet pounding heavily, skidding around corners and dodging couples trying to find their rooms as well. The front desk attendant was less than helpful, probably had only been working there for a couple days.

He didn't even give himself time to think about it, when he finally reached the door he was looking for. He was gasping for breath, knocking in quick succession, not stopping until the door was yanked open and Mickey stood there, brows drawn tightly together.

“The fuck are you doing here?” he asked, taking a step back into his room.

“Wait,” Ian panted, holding up a hand. “Just hear me out.”

Mickey leaned against the door, his arms folded under his chest; he looked worn the fuck out. His hair looked like he’d been running his hands through it, his forehead crinkled when he rose his brows. Ian finally noticed that he was dressed in a pair of sweatpants and an undershirt he’d cut the sleeves off of, probably getting ready to strip down and go to bed. He couldn't think about that now though, not when he was trying to get Mickey to listen to him and take him seriously.

Ian took out a crumpled piece of paper from his jacket pocket, his hands shaking as he read his own chicken-scratch handwriting —little notes he didn't want to forget.

“It takes five and a half to six hours to get from here to Cleveland,” Ian said. “With possible halfway points in Fort Wayne… or this place called Defiance in Ohio. And I don’t know shit about that place, but it sounds like the kind of town you’d be into, just saying.”

“Ian—”

“Wait, let me finish, please,” Ian held up a hand. “I will never make you go back to ten years ago. And I will _always_ take my medication and I wont get mad at you for giving a shit about me,” he dropped the paper and shrugged, going for his hail-fucking-mary, like a goddamn rom-com douchebag standing in the middle of an airport terminal, spilling his fucking guts for the love of his life.

“And I won’t take you for granted this time. I won’t always say the right thing or do the right thing… but I’ll fucking try, I will, I swear to God. And because of my job, I have summers and holidays off, so… that’s nice, right? And I’m good with kids, you know that —I helped raise them, I teach them, I’m pretty fucking patient with homework too, just ask Carl and Liam. And I never stopped loving you, not even for a fucking day. Mickey. Please, I want to do this right, I want to start over.”

Ian held out his hand, turning it sideways so this thumb pointed towards the ceiling. He took a deep breath, “Hi, my name is Ian.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda short & idk who I feel about it.  
> Hm.


	4. Not Ever Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But when had he ever fallen out of love with Ian Gallagher? He hadn’t. He tried. He tried so many times and failed.

When Mickey got back to his hotel room, his whole body had been shaking and no matter how many times he rubbed at his eyes, he couldn't get the tears to go away. He hated feeling helpless, hated fucking crying like a little bitch. He hated that Ian still had this power over him, after all these years, that never went away. It was supposed to go away.

The first thing he did was strip down and jump into the shower, probably standing under the hot spray of water for an hour, Mickey didn't know how long he was there for. He just needed to get Ian’s scent off of him before it made him do something stupid like fall in love all over again. 

But he kept thinking about Ian, and Ian’s hands, and Ian’s mouth, and Ian’s face, and the way that literally nothing else fucking mattered when Ian looked at him. All he could think about was how it was impossible to fucking breathe around him, impossible to fall out of love with him.

But when had he _ever_ fallen out of love with Ian Gallagher? He hadn’t. He tried. He tried so many times and failed.

Then he called Mandy. “I fucked up,” he told her, “I saw Ian and I fucked up.”

She was quiet on the other end of the line, until she asked, “What happened?”

Mickey didn't like talking about this shit with anyone. But over the past decade, he and Mandy had gotten closer, had been more open about stuff. It started off more about emotional survival than sibling bonding. Whatever the case, the point was that Mickey told her.

“I kissed him.”

“Oh shit,” Mandy sighed, but he could hear her smile.

“This is the opposite of fucking funny, Mands.”

“I don’t think it’s funny at all,” his sister said. “I think it’s about fucking time.”

Mickey hung up on her. She wasn’t helping.

He sat on the end of the bed, staring at the wall opposite of himself, water droplets on his skin freezing him in the chilled air, but Mickey made no move to cover up, to dry off. The shower didn't wash away the feel of Ian’s lips. It didn't wash away the way his whole body reacted to Ian pushing against him, that familiar form pressing him against the brick wall. The feel of that red hair under his fingers. The way Ian said _Mick._

He’d been called Mick countless times over the past ten years, but no one had ever really gotten it right, not the way Ian did. It sounded like a promise when Ian said it. It sounded like _it’s okay_ and _I’m here_ and _breathe_.

But how could he breathe when his heart was lodged in his throat?

Mickey lit up a cigarette and paced his hotel room. Ten years ago, he’d be a twelve pack deep right about now. He wasn’t craving the alcohol, even though he knew it would make this whole thing a hell of a lot easier. It wasn’t worth it, no matter how good a bottle of whiskey sounded right now. He’d never forgive himself —more importantly, Yev would never forgive him.

He got dressed, paced the room a couple times, lit up a second cigarette, hands unable to leave his hair alone. It wasn’t worth it, the alcohol wasn't worth it. He called Yev, asked how school was, needing to hear his son, the driving force behind his sobriety.

“Boring,” Yev sighed, “When you coming back? Mom’s being a bitch about my room again. Can I come stay with you for a few days? I know it’s not your week but…”

“Ay, don’t talk about your mother like that,” Mickey frowned. Yev was a good kid, a really good kid. However, he was _still_ Mickey’s kid, and whether it was learned behavior or fucking genetic, Yev —only eleven years old— had an attitude and a mouth on him akin to a seventeen year old.

Yev made a sort of dramatic strangled noise, “She wont get off my ass.”

“Then clean your fucking room, man.” Mickey shrugged, “Easy solution.”

This was good. This normalcy was good. Got his mind off of Ian.

“Yeah but, I don’t want to.”

Despite himself, Mickey laughed, “You clean your room, you can come stay with me for a couple days. Deal?”

Again, Yev made that noise, “Fine. You’re coming home tomorrow morning right?”

“Yeah,” Mickey sighed.

“Cool. Love you, dad.”

“Love you too, kid,” Mickey responded. 

Then they hung up. And he was left alone again. But only for a moment, because then came the knocking, frantic and loud pounding on his door, like there was a goddamn fire or something. 

But it wasn’t a fire. It was Ian.

And then the motherfucker rom-com’d him. Full fledged, dropping the piece of paper and winging the rest of his speech, rom-com’d him. 

It was really the simplest, _and heaviest_ , decision he’d ever made. All he could think was, _I love this man_. When Ian extended his hand, Mickey grabbed onto it and pulled him into his hotel room, closing the door behind them, sealing them off from the rest of the world. Properly alone. 

Mickey said a quick prayer to whatever higher being there maybe was that he wasn't making the wrong move. But he wanted this so bad, wanted Ian so bad —in his life, by his side, loving him, talking to him, fucking him, everything, he wanted it all. Had never _not_ wanted it.

Ian just looked at him with those big eyes all wide and _holy shit it actually worked_. Mickey didn’t think, didn't need to think anymore because Ian was right. It was only six hours and he’d never stopped loving him, no matter how hard he tried to, it never worked. Ian was more permanent than his tattoos. Ian Gallagher was a fucking problem, but a good problem, a very fucking good problem.

They were frantic. Desperate. Hot. 

Mickey would admit it ten times over, they were fucking _hot_.

Ian pushed him against the wall, kissed him. Mickey turned them around, doing the same to the redhead. Groping and pulling at clothes and _fuck this is amazing_ and familiar but new at the same time. 

They weren’t kids anymore. They were grown, grown able bodies, and grown experienced mouths, and grown strong hands. Belts went flying and jeans were tugged off and _fuck he was still so fucking beautiful._

Ian got a hold of his neck again _._ Some kind of uncontrollable groan ripped from Mickey, that he wasn’t even worried about, that he wasn't ashamed for making. He’d never wanted anyone like he wanted Ian. That had _never_ changed.

And his mouth. _Fuck_ , Mickey pressed his mouth hard against Ian’s, bit at those lips he loved and missed so much and dug his fingers into pale, freckled shoulders when that mouth was trailing up and down his throat, kissing and licking and biting. The man knew how to bite, he always knew though. No one else could quite get it right like Ian could.

Somehow they made it to the bed, Ian above him, pressing his body against his. They rutted against each other and touched each other and Mickey felt fucking _drunk_. Who needed alcohol when you had Ian Gallagher?

“I want you, Mick, I want to fuck you so bad,” Ian moaned out, his voice full of rasp and want. “God, Mick, can I fuck you? _Please_ , let me fuck you, please,” He said this as he wrapped his hand around Mickey and himself at the same time, his free hand grabbing at the back of Mickey’s neck. 

Mickey could have come undone just from those words alone. Because Ian didn't beg. He never begged, not like that. The redhead used to get Mickey to beg, _loved_ to get Mickey to beg —he used to get Mickey so worked up that he thought he’d die without Ian inside of him. But Ian… Ian never begged like that.

So this, Ian begging him… it was Mickey’s new favorite sound. It made his mouth water.

Mickey, a little smug from his new predicament, buried his hands in Ian’s hair, “You got a condom so you can fuck me?”

Ian dipped his head in a nod. He had three. He picked up a pack on the way over to the hotel. Mickey laughed because only Ian Gallagher would be _so_ fucking obnoxiously optimistic  as to pick up condoms for _just in case I win back the love of my life after ten years with a fucking rom-com speech_.

They were all teeth and tongues, all kissing and grabbing, all skin against skin and breath against breath. Ian begged more, then Mickey gave him what he wanted and jesus fucking christ, it had never been _this_ good. It had never been this fucking _free_ and _good_. 

Mickey’s whole body shook.

Ian chanted his name like a fucking prayer.

* * *

The second time was slow and sweet and they never stopped looking at each other, never stopped touching each others faces. 

They cried. 

Mickey still hated the crying part, but a little less that time because it wasn’t _this hurts_ crying, it was _I can’t ever go back to my life without you_ crying. It was _I love you_ crying.

* * *

Then they laid together until it was three in the morning, exhausted and curled up into one another, breathing against each other.

Ian asked all about Yev and Mickey told him everything. About how smart the kid was, about the first time he got into a fight for sticking up for his best friend, and the second time for sticking up for himself. Svetlana had read Mickey the riot act after that happened because of course her son wouldn't learn that from _her_. 

Mickey told Ian about how Yev could change a car’s oil, how he was obsessed with astronomy and math, how he had this crush on this girl named Ana, but he wouldn't admit to it. 

He told him how his hair turned dark and his eyes stayed bright blue, and even though he looked more like Svetlana in the face, the kid had mastered the Mickey Milkovich eyebrow raise. He told him how he was a stocky little shit who was just this amazing conundrum of opposites and had this heart bigger than anyone he’d ever seen. The kid fascinated Mickey.

“So he’s a lot like you, huh?” Ian grinned.

Mickey huffed a laugh, “He’s better.”

Then Ian asked about Mandy. Mandy was good. She worked in the office at the garage that Mickey worked at, giving everyone shit and making sure the workers stayed busy. 

Ian missed Mandy… Mickey could tell. Mandy missed Ian too. 

They should have never been apart from one another.

* * *

Ian told Mickey about his work. Mickey listened to every syllable, watching Ian’s lips form every sound. He listened to Ian talk about the teachers he worked with —mostly older, tired, underpaid, on their last string of patience. 

Ian told him about the rest of the Gallagher clan. Fiona’s decision not to have children —which surprised Mickey— and about how Debbie had a pregnancy scare that sent the whole family into a panic. Liam had just started high school and was just as smart as Lip, maybe even smarter.

Lip had miraculously settled down and had a kid of his own, just one though. Ian said even though his brother was still a jackass, he’d softened since the birth of his daughter. Her name was Lilian Fiona Gallagher and she was, as Ian said, absolutely beautiful.

Then Carl, who Mickey always understood the most —he was still up to no good, but smarter about it. Mickey always knew that if anything, Carl would get smarter about his less-than-legal activities.

Mickey never thought in a million years he’d be listening so closely or care so much about what the fuck the Gallaghers had been up to for the past ten years.

* * *

The third time they fucked, it was five in the morning, but neither one of them was anywhere close to being tired.

They laughed more the third time. Played more, teased more, kissed longer. Ian’s filthy mouth resurfaced, all smug and dirty just like Mickey remembered it could get. 

When they came, they came hard and together. Scratching down backs and teeth sinking into shoulders, it was fucking beautiful.

* * *

And then came the part where Mickey stood outside of the airport security gate, Ian right by his side. 

Ten years had passed and took away Mickey’s shame. So Mickey held on tight to Ian, held on tight and buried his face into Ian’s shoulder and listened to Ian whisper how much he loved him, and not once did he give a fuck about the hundreds of other people coming and going around them.

Then Mickey kissed Ian. Soft and just enough, an _I’ll call you when I get home_ kind of kiss. Not a goodbye kiss. Not this time. Not ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrapping this up for now, but I am definitely 100% adding to the "After It Happened" series, in one way or another. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading :) 
> 
> Xx


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